


To Close Round the Moment

by venilia



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venilia/pseuds/venilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We need some pines to assuage the darkness</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 Narnia Fic Exchange

I.

The day Lucy first visited Narnia was also the day Susan had her first menstrual period. Peter didn't want to know that, but he went to talk to her about Lucy’s wild imagination and whether or not they should play along and the door to the girls’ bedroom was open.

He didn’t mean to spy. Nosiness wasn’t in Peter’s nature. But Susan was huddled up as if ashamed and for a panicked moment Peter thought she was crying. Then he saw that she was standing over her suitcase which was laid out on her bed, and when she pulled something out at first he thought, “But there aren’t any babies to wear nappies,” and then a certain uncomfortable conversation with his father came back to him, and he could feel himself blushing.

Of course, Susan picked that moment to turn around with her things. She let out a surprised, “Oh!” and Peter said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” and she said, “No, that’s quite all right.” Peter was sure she said it out of habit because it wasn’t all right, it was horribly, horribly uncomfortable. They stood there for a miserable moment. He didn’t realize that he was blocking the doorway until she tried to duck around him and he tried to duck out of the way. They performed one of those going-around-each-other dances that are awkward at the best of times, before Susan finally frowned and pushed right past him. Peter’s back hit the door, and he saw his sister dash down the corridor with her woman things and disappear into the water closet.

He knew it was her first time needing the woman things because he’d seen his mum whisper something to her at the station. Susan had blushed and said, “But Mum! I don’t need…” and their mother had patted her arm and said, “Just in case, dear. You’re getting to be so grown up!”

When Susan was out of sorts and snappish the next day, Peter wisely didn’t say anything.

 

 

Lucy, who was still awfully young, thought that it was school that had changed Edmund, but Peter knew it was the horrid Peers brothers. Frank and Curtis Peers thought themselves the kings of Hendon House because their uncle was a duke, and their father was Lord Henry, and they expected everyone to know it. Edmund had tried with furious embarrassment to counter that their father was a Major, at least, but in those days nearly everyone’s father was a soldier, and even Majors weren’t uncommon.

The truly unbearable thing about the Peers brother was that even though they made you feel stupid, they were so funny and clever that you still wanted them to like you. Even Peter’s friend, Neil, who Peter had thought too shy to ever do much harm had called Peter a sissy and jeered when Mrs. Pevensie kissed Peter goodbye. Peter had known that Neil thought no such thing, but with Frank’s bright laughter and slaps on the shoulder egging him on Neil just kept at it until Peter couldn’t conscience being friends with him even outside school.

Peter had other friends and knew the vicious things Neil said weren’t true so it didn’t bother him too much, but Edmund was the sort who took his reputation a little too seriously, and it bothered him enormously. Every time Curtis Peers shouldered him out of his way, or tittered like a girl with his friends just as Edmund walked by, or made comments about how, really, who cared if one’s father was anything less than a General these days to one of his or Frank’s cronies, Edmund seethed with anger and hunched downward in shame, until the anger was almost like a jumper he pulled on every day. By the end of the term he’d learned to walk with his head tall by lording his father’s position over the boys whose fathers were things like dentists or engineers or Privates, and he unraveled his anger-jumper by taking spiteful little revenges on anyone who made him feel less than princely, which was mainly Peter who was disgusted at his brother’s behavior.

Peter wished his father was still home to give Edmund a good talking-to. 

 

 

Peter wasn’t sure if the other two knew that Lucy hated to be alone.

She’d had almost a harder time than Edmund when Edmund had finally been old enough to leave for school as he and Susan had the years before. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad, Peter thought, if Mrs. Tibbs had still lived next door for Lucy to go and have tea and biscuits with, but Mrs. Tibbs’ son had convinced his mother to move in with his family, and with Father away and Mother so busy Lucy had no one.

Part of it, Peter thought, was that Lucy was the kind of person who loved to share anything lovely, and it was unbearable for her to have no one to laugh with. He remembered two-years-old Lucy, thumb in her mouth, tugging Susan by the hand into the boys’ room Christmas morning so they could all go downstairs for presents. She had never even thought of opening presents by herself, but that was Lucy all over. If it had been Edmund or Susan who had first made a mythical friend in a magical country in a wardrobe, they might have kept such a wonderful secret to themselves. (That was almost exactly what Edmund had done, actually.)

Lucy was the bravest person Peter knew, but he thought that if it weren’t for the Macready chasing them into the spare room that day and his and Susan’s subsequent discovery of Narnia, Lucy would never have been brave enough to go on and meet Aslan on her own.

 

 

Peter saw Aslan outside of Narnia.

The first time Peter was seven, and he fell out of a tree while on holiday in the country. He broke his arm in two places and hit his head hard, and was too stunned to cry or shout for help.

He lay there long enough for the deep shadows of the branches to pass over his face while the world made sickly revolutions, like a gyroscope at the end of its spin when it can’t decide which way to topple.

Finally, he heard his father’s voice calling his name, and tried to answer but couldn’t seem to get his words out loudly enough. Mr. Pevensie’s voice drifted away, and then Peter cried, just a little.

Quite suddenly there was a bright light, which at first Peter took to be the sun falling in his eyes again. It resolved instead into a great lion, at least as tall as the pony Susan had fallen in love with in the stables, and Peter felt himself being lifted up like a kitten and carried to a clearing. His father found him slumped up against a tree, woozily trying to find his feet, and carried him back to the inn, where a doctor was called and much fuss was made over Peter’s bravery.

Even Susan didn’t believe him about the lion, and until he met Aslan with his siblings and the Beavers at Aslan’s camp Peter himself thought it had been a dream, or a hallucination.

 

 

II.

After Mr. Beaver gave Lucy back her handkerchief, Peter caught her hand darting to her pocket several times to feel it, as if she worried she would lose it, as if keeping the handkerchief safe could somehow keep her poor, betrayer-turned-friend safe. He thought she was just about to settle down when Edmund was discovered to be missing, and her whole face just dropped. As Susan and the Beavers rushed about the lodge to pack, Lucy stole a brief moment to carefully wipe her few tears on her handkerchief, and then folded it up, measuring the corners to each other as well as she could, and replaced it in her pocket. Peter had his arms full of Mr. Beaver’s fishing gear which he was firmly told to drop the next instant in favor of blankets, so he couldn’t offer to hold onto it for her, or he would have.

 

 

That night in the Beavers’ hideout Lucy dropped right off after taking a sip from the flask, but Peter took a bit longer. Mr. Beaver was snoring loudly enough that Peter was worried they’d be discovered any minute, and Mrs. Beaver hadn’t twitched for minutes when Peter heard Susan huff a little sob.

He remembered his fear back in England that he would have to comfort her, but here in Narnia it was different. For one thing, she was already huddled against him for warmth (as was Lucy, and his left arm was dead from her weight) which meant that he didn’t really have to hug her, and for another thing he almost felt like crying himself. It was just so big, and so dangerous, and he was so very tired, and his feet hurt from walking and besides being worried about Susan and Lucy, he was worried about Edmund and felt guilty.

Awkwardly, he felt about in the dark until he had her hand and gave it a good squeeze. Susan froze for a moment, and then relaxed and squeezed back.

“I’m not really crying, you know,” she whispered. “It’s just that I’m tired.”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, “I know, Su. I know that,” and he believed her because Susan might not have been brave like Lucy, but she could soldier on with the best of them. She’d been fantastic when Father first left and Mother barely left her room for three days and it was up to Susan to cook them dinner and clean the kitchen after burning the chicken, and after her initial farewell tears at the train station she hadn’t cried a bit.

It was companionably silent for a minute, and then Susan whispered, “Peter? I think I’m getting a blister on my heel,” and it was so unexpected that Peter had to laugh (which was barely audible over Mr. Beaver’s snores anyway). Susan slapped his shoulder and called him mean, but he could hear the smile in her voice, and she settled down and slept soon afterward.

Eventually, Peter slept too. 

 

 

After Edmund had his talk with Aslan and they’d all hugged and made up again, and after Aslan and the Witch had parlayed and come to their own agreement, Peter took Edmund aside and really apologized to him for not being a better brother. Edmund said that it was all right, and that he didn’t blame Peter, really, and that if Aslan could forgive Edmund betraying Narnia and his own siblings to the White Witch then Edmund felt he had no place holding Peter trying to be too grown-up against him, at which point Peter was obliged to punch him in the arm and say, “Oi! That’s Sir Peter Wolf’s-Bane to you, laddy!” which proved everything was right with Edmund again because he only laughed, pure childlike laughter with no anger in it at all.

Edmund never spoke much about his time with the Witch and he never said anything about his talk with Aslan, but that night, in their tent, Edmund whispered across to Peter. He loosely covered the enchanted Turkish Delight, and the statues in her courtyard, and finished by telling Peter about drawing a mustache on the lion’s face which he felt especially bad for now that he’d seen Aslan.

But Peter, who was nervous about the upcoming battle and half asleep, laughed until he was out of breath. 

 

 

The news from the cherry tree Dryad made Peter worried sick about his sisters. Edmund seemed calmer and kept saying that Aslan must have known what he was doing, but he was pale and ate his breakfast slowly, as if unwilling to finish before the girls returned.

Peter didn’t know what to think. He hated the sense that finally, just when he had all his family together, he’d lost track of them again. It felt like failure, and his morning coffee, which had felt like a treat and very grown up yesterday, was tasteless.

Oreius, as Captain of Aslan’s Guard, Thimsly, a youngish looking but solemn Dwarf in charge of weaponry and supplies, and an older Faun called Cellus who seemed to be in charge of keeping track of everybody and had a knack for foretelling the strengths and weaknesses of Peter’s army, were gathered to hear his orders and to advise. They watched Peter pace while Edmund leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes. Peter knew he should feel guilty for worrying about two girls missing when he had an entire army to prepare, but instead he felt almost angry, which just made him more upset for being such an obviously poor leader. He studiously ignored the news that Aslan was dead, unable to fix the idea of death to the huge, golden aliveness of the Lion. Peter balled up his fists at his sides and tried to hide his feelings.

Reports were already coming in about the Witch’s army gathering, and there were maps laid out on the little table they’d eaten at just yesterday, and the sounds of an army readying itself in the warm dawn light.

 

“If you send out the Griffins first, Prince Peter,” said Cellus (they’d been calling him Prince since he killed Maugrim) “they’ll almost all be taken out. Let the Witch’s archers waste their arrows on just a few hawks who can dodge them easily and still gather information. Then you can send in…” he trailed off as Sunfeather the Griffin, who at Edmund’s advice had been charged with managing the incoming reports, landed just at Peter’s elbow with a few great sweeps of his wings to steady his descent.

“My Princes,” he bowed first to Peter and then to Edmund, “Sallowpad has returned, and he says your sisters still sit with… they are still at the Stone Table, and there are no enemies about.”

Peter and Edmund both let out sighs of relief, but Sunfeather waited with more news.

“What is it, Sunfeather?” Peter asked.

The Griffin swallowed. “Sire, the Witch herself has moved to join her troops. She rides a chariot pulled by two white bears which my Ravens tell me are but dumb beasts.” He paused and looked as if he forced the next words through his throat by sheer will and duty. “I posted Farsight the Eagle, sire, and he tells me she wears the mane of a Lion about her shoulders.”

The others gasped in horror. Peter felt ill, and Edmund whispered, “No, no, no!” and shut his eyes tight. 

Only Oreius took the news calmly. He stood as still as any statue with his head bowed. Then he lifted it and said, “My Prince, surely Aslan foresaw this. Surely this is the reason he has placed you in charge and advised you on the battle. Aslan has placed his trust in you, Prince Peter, and I can hardly do less,” and he bowed low.

The others were quick to join him, each bowing in their own fashion. Edmund looked around at them, and then turned to Peter and dropped his own head as one Prince to another.

Peter turned away from his companions and put his hand over his face for a long moment, remembering Aslan’s own words. He was relieved, and ashamed, and embarrassed and even honored all at once.

When he thought he could face everyone (especially his little brother) again without crying, he took it away, took a deep breath, and made himself smile.

“Thank you, Oreius. Thank all of you,” he said.

There was a pause.

“So, all right yes, the hawks first, but what about the Phoenix?” Edmund said, for which Peter was grateful because he’d entirely forgotten what Cellus had been saying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gore consistent with battle this chapter.

III.

The first time he drew his sword as King was five days after his coronation, when someone tried to assassinate Edmund for treachery. 

Peter was across the hall when Susan screamed Edmund’s name. By the time Peter reached his brother’s side Lucy had already come up from behind and neatly sliced open the Ferret’s throat with the dagger Father Christmas had given her. It was a magnificent move, but afterwards she clung to Edmund’s waist and cried. Edmund was too grateful and sympathetic to be awkward, though Susan later told Peter that she’d had to wait a full ten minutes (while guarding with a tensely strung arrow) before she could hug Edmund herself. 

Peter was too busy chasing after the three remaining conspirators (another Ferret, a Mountain Cat that narrowly missed slicing Peter’s own throat open, and a male Dryad) and shouting orders to his Griffins and great Cats and Centaurs to take part in any hugging. The Dryad got away, but the Ferret and the Cat were caught and imprisoned and Peter hated that one of his first rulings as King of Narnia was to sentence two of his subjects to death.

 

 

Peter was uninjured after killing the wolf, and received only superficial wounds in the Battle of Beruna -- certainly nothing compared to Edmund’s. Even the whole assassination affair only resulted in a tear in Peter’s tunic and Edmund’s knee being bruised from falling to it when the Ferret jumped on his back, which wasn’t worth using Lucy’s cordial.

Peter’s first serious wound wasn’t until his second battle. This was with Telmar, towards the end of the second year of his reign when they invaded Narnia’s western border. It was easy to tell Narnia’s borders – if it had been unseasonably covered in snow and ice until recently, it was part of Narnia. (Actually, Peter was pretty sure that despite it being snowy year round, the Narnia-Archenland border should be on the other side of Stormness Head, just over the peak, but for the sake of their friendship with Archenland Narnia had decided not to contest the boundaries.)

Telmar’s army was easily half again as large as Narnia’s and more disciplined, but then the Telmarines were also less experienced and unused to fighting Unicorns or Giants or furious Badgers.

Peter found himself in the thick of it with a swift-footed, sweet-tempered bay Talking Mare named Tress (or at least that was as close as Peter came to pronouncing it), who’d been thrilled to have the honor of carrying the High King. He plunged Rhindon into one man’s shoulder and turned to motion Oreius to strengthen their southern flank when Tress screamed sharply and Peter was thrown through the air. He landed on his shoulder, but fortunately the ground was soft and though he had a large bruise later, his arm was uninjured. He lay there for a stunned moment listening to the ringing of his helmet.

The next moment there was a scream to his right and an idiot Telmarine was bringing his sword down in an arc. Peter threw himself left in time for the sword to miss cutting into his head or arm, but the Telmarine had put in too much force to recover his blow, and Peter was too dazed to move quickly. The sword cut through his right hand, severing three fingers and the tip of his thumb. The Telmarine had to tug his sword out of the ground and the two seconds it took saved Peter’s life as he blinked at his fingers lying in the grass like enormous flesh-colored grubs. When he lifted his head from the sight he saw Rhindon a foot or so beyond, and instinct combined with hours of training made him dive for it before the thought that he ought to do so had completed itself. He rolled onto his haunches and brought it up with his left hand just as the Telmarine let out another ridiculous battle cry and lunged at him again. This time it went through the man’s throat.

Peter sort of wandered about for the next little while until one of the Centauresses saw him and threw him over her back without bothering to ask. She carried him back to their base camp where he found Lucy treating Tress for a shattered foreleg. Lucy’s face grew white when she saw Peter’s stumps, and she threw up at the base of a nearby tree. Then she seemed to get angry and Peter heard her mutter, “Stupid little baby! If he can stand it, then so can you,” at herself as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. They both held their breaths as she carefully poured a drop onto each stump.

Peter nearly cried when they grew back in a few minutes, and Lucy nearly threw up again. 

 

 

Peter broke the nose of the first man to kiss Susan. Susan was only a little mad – she hadn’t much cared for her suitor to begin with, and she was only fifteen at the time where the suitor was twenty-six. Still, punching a foreign duke was never a wise move, which Susan made sure to remind Peter at length.

“And Peter, he’s rumored to have the Prince’s ear. Right, Ed?” she turned to Edmund, who was looking steadily at the floor. Edmund nodded.

Lucy, who was lying before the great hearth with a book, frowned. “I don’t see why you had to hit him, Peter, but Su, Prince Hallagh is just one lord of a country smaller than ours. I’m sure Edmund could talk us out of a war if he gets too upset, right Edmund?” she said.

Edmund nodded.

“See?” said Peter. “And even if they cut off trade we wouldn’t be all that bad off.”

Lucy shrugged at this. Edmund seemed to have mastered this nodding business.

“I know we don’t really need their fruit,” Susan said, pacing, “but have you thought about whom we’re going to purchase coffee or wool from if he storms off? We could maybe increase our sheep industry on the Lone Islands,” she mused, “but we don’t have any other allies who can trade coffee, right, Ed?”

Edmund nodded.

By this time Susan been gently but persistently pointing out the many ways this could all go wrong for almost half an hour, and Peter was sick of it.

“Look,” he said, “If he’s got any decency he’ll understand, and if he doesn’t then we don’t want him at our court. And anyway, Su, you were going to reject his suit and it’s a little easier to mend a broken nose than wounded pride, right Ed?”

“I’m sure,” said Edmund, nodding.

Susan rolled her eyes and she and Lucy did that odd female thing of knowing when to walk away together without any sort of agreement to do so first. Peter stared after them in bewilderment.

“Peter,” Edmund finally looked up, “how hard did you hit him?”

Peter paused. He hadn’t thought any of it through, just reacted. Susan was a young woman, yes, but Peter could still see the occasional awkwardness in her limbs, the slight baby fat of her cheeks, still saw his sister blush when occasioned with any sort of intimate gesture, still thought of her as too young to be a full grown woman. Perhaps he was wrong about that, here in Narnia where she’d seen Aslan sacrificed on the Stone Table and fought in two battles, but by the Lion, he was still her older brother and the duke had been far too forward with a woman more than ten years his junior.

Susan had looked uncomfortable.

He shrugged. “Hard enough.”

“Good,” said Edmund, and smiled as he left to go smooth over the little incident. 

 

 

On the first Saturday of every month the four monarchs ascended the dais in the Great Hall and heard court. Any dispute or concern was heard, from the smallest (Mr. Beaver was getting on in years and worried about mending his dam. Could their majesties be so kind as to supply him workers for a day or two every year, just to patch the little things? Thankin’ you kindly.) to the larger ones (there were rumors of a Werewolf near the Fords of Beruna, your majesties! Oh please, do come investigate!) to the very serious (the Owls had a parliament near Ravenscaur during the Witch’s reign, but with spring and new chicks space was tight and tempers were high, and two Ravens had broken an Owl’s egg while scrapping over a nest. What were they all to do, your majesties?) and anything in between. Most things were in between.

On a miserable day in late autumn when the first cold snap had just broken, an especially dour and irritable Marsh-wiggle and a furious Dryad came before them. Peter took one look at their faces and groaned, inwardly. Susan groaned out loud, but quietly.

In between insults (the Naiad) and miserable predictions (the Marsh-wiggle) it came out that the River Shribble had flooded the previous spring, and a new branch dipped into the Marsh. There weren’t many Dryads that far north as they favored the protected waters of wells or well-formed rivers, but there was always exceptions.

“And then the fishes will be poisoned. The eels too, I shouldn’t wonder. And then I shall starve to death, or worse,” the Marsh-wiggle lowered his voice as if speaking of a great doom, “move in with my brother!” He made a sort of popping sound with his lips whenever he thought, like a nervous habit. Peter blinked and started to ask if he was finished when the Wiggle gathered himself and added, “And it smells wrong, too. Doesn’t have that proper marshy-ness to it, doesn’t have any scum on the water or dead grass. And there’s even,” he wiggled his fingers in front of him, “a current. My wigwam will be washed away." Pop. Pop. "Probably happen while I’m sleeping, and I'll drown.”

Peter opened his mouth to point out that the stream was only a few feet deep, by the Naiad’s report, and anyway, he was a Marsh-wiggle, but the Wiggle continued, “And even if I should live, I’m sure to get pneumonia and die anyway. And it’ll spread to anyone who takes care of me, of course," Pop, "And then, well then they’ll all die. And all because she couldn’t share a well with her sisters like a proper Naiad." Pop. "Doom the whole Marsh, why don’t you?” he pointed an accusatory finger at her.

The Naiad was almost green with anger, and Lucy, who’d been lulled by the Wiggle’s account, started when the Naiad let out an inarticulate shout and stamped her foot, visibly controlling herself from lunging at the Marsh-wiggle.

“Well then, friends,” Peter hurried to say before violence broke out, “Evening grows, and I would have my dinner.” He paused and received hearty nods from his brother and sisters. “Let us adjourn until tomorrow, when we will give our judgment.”

Dinner was splendid, but Peter barely noticed what he ate as they all four argued. Lucy sided with the Wiggle and didn’t see why the Naiad couldn’t find some other stream, while Peter thought that a small stream could hardly make that much difference and the Wiggle could move his wigwam further away if it bothered him so much. Edmund, who was always a bit under the weather and silent for the first week of snow, played devil’s advocate for both sides in between staring at his plate, but didn’t have his heart in it, and Susan kept shooting him concerned glances while arguing in support of whichever side he attacked.

After an hour of not getting anywhere it was decided that further investigation would take place, and they would hear again from both sides tomorrow. Cellus was called for to arrange their schedule accordingly. Then the matter was put aside for more pleasant activities such as reading and chess.

The following morning found them again on their thrones, struggling not to squirm or yawn as first the Naiad and then the Marsh-wiggle went on and on again, saying much of what they’d said the day before.

Susan leapt to her feet in the middle of the Naiad recounting exactly which habits made her sisters unable to be lived with, and threw up her hands. “Oh, this is perfectly ridiculous!” she said. “You’re both at fault here, arguing like little children. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? I’m sure if you’d both talked to each other instead of squabbling you’d have realized that a simple dam would change the stream’s course away from the marsh. It would have taken you less time and effort then coming here. And I really think it was more of a bother to come all the way to Cair Paravel at the beginning of winter and leave your wigwam and your stream unguarded and unattended than living next to each other in the first place!” She gathered herself, sharply. “That is my counsel, my brothers and sister,” she said, and sat down.

Lucy exclaimed, “Oh well said, Susan!” while Edmund smiled broadly for the first time in days. The Naiad and the Marsh-wiggle made embarrassed apologies and left quickly with their heads hung low.

Peter stared at Susan in admiration and for the umpteenth time since his coronation was deeply thankful that he did not have to rule Narnia on his own, that he had Lucy’s courage and optimism, Edmund’s quick wit and passion for justice, and Susan’s soft heart and steady sense to weigh out his own judgments.

“Really, sister, you are a marvel,” he told her, and she laughed at them all and declared that they should have a winter picnic in the courtyard before the true snow came.

Though it was really too cold, they had a lovely time and when they were finished hot chocolate was served by the great fireplace in Peter’s rooms.


	3. Chapter 3

IV.

After hearing Professors Kirk’s account of his own time in Narnia Peter wondered if animals here in England, in this world, had ever talked. One Sunday, after a sermon about Eve and the serpent, Susan wondered the same thing.

“I mean,” she said, “I read during the hymn to make really sure, but Eve only said something about which fruit they could eat. She didn’t say anything like, 'Snakes don’t talk!' or run away screaming or try to hit it with a rock or anything, you see? I mean, wouldn’t she do something like that if she was surprised?”

Peter shrugged, miserably. He had reached the point where he thought he’d give just about anything for a good conversation with a Rabbit or a Mole or a Deer or an Eagle. He’d even settle for talking to a Squirrel, and he’d known Squirrels to natter on about walnuts or acorns for hours.

“Maybe she did, but it’s not in the Bible,” he suggested. “It’s not the sort of thing you take the time to write down in important stories, you know.” Susan was frowning, so he ribbed her, “Even Lucy left out the part where you said that Beavers shouldn’t be talking at all when she used to tell our story, and Lucy doesn’t leave out bits for appearance sake.” 

Susan shrugged, unconvinced. 

Peter didn’t tell her that he’d done his own research. There were an awful lot of stories about talking animals. There were talking rabbits and crocodiles and birds and wolves from stories all over the world. Even later on in the Old Testament there was a story with a talking donkey. It kept Peter wondering.

For Susan’s fourteenth birthday Peter determined to buy her a kitten. In one pet shop, Peter met a “talking” parrot. It wasn’t the same thing at all, and he left without even looking at the kittens, and had to sacrifice a whole afternoon to find a second shop.

Susan named her orange tabby cat Tiger and doted on him, and sometimes Tiger would cock his head just so and for a split second Peter imagined he was about to ask for something, complain, say something, say anything. 

 

 

When Peter and Edmund went back to Hendon House, and Susan to St. Finbarr’s, Lucy wrote them all pages and pages of letters, many of them about the golden years of their reign (which weren’t all of them, what with tracking down the remainders of the Witch’s army, fighting giants in the North, and proving to the lands around them that the newly free Narnia was not, in fact, defenseless or in need of conquering). Peter could feel her homesickness on the paper like Braille.

Susan wrote back as a matter of course, Edmund because he was Lucy’s closest friend here in England, and Peter wrote back scores because her letters reminded him that he was still High King, even where there was no Narnia.

It kept them sane. 

 

 

Curtis Peers remarked to Edmund that at least his father was a Lord, and Peter opened his mouth to say, “Look, you little twit, my brother is a King of Narnia!” but Edmund was already asking thoughtfully, “Is he a good man?”

Curtis looked surprised. Frank had to dig his elbow into his side. “Y-yes?” Curtis said, as if he wasn’t quite sure of the answer, but then he recovered. “I mean, of course he is!”

“Then you must be very proud to be his son,” said Edmund, and walked off without a second glance, leaving a thoroughly flummoxed Frank and Curtis Peers behind.

Peter was proud of him. 

 

 

Father Simon was the new priest at Hendon House after old Father Thomkins retired. Peter respected priests the same way he respected doctors or university professors, but it was hard to respect Father Simon. He was every awful thing about religion epitomized in one man, and not very nice to boot. Peter suspected he had only become a priest so that he could tell people they were doing things wrongly.

Edmund was sitting next to Peter, eating porridge while Peter cut his toast into soldiers. Usually the younger boys had to sit with their fellow classmates at the appropriate table, but it was Saturday morning, so cross-class fraternization was allowed.

Unfortunately, Father Simon had taken it upon himself the task of eating breakfast with the students each week, which everyone hated.

This week, he’d chosen to sit across from Peter.

“Master Pevensie,” he started.

Both Peter and Edmund looked up at him.

“Hm!” he cleared his throat, “Yes, by which I obviously mean the elder master Pevensie. I see that you have mistaken, my dear young sir, your fingers for your knife and fork. It will not do, master Pevensie. It will not do at all!” he lectured primly, and proceeded to cut his own toast into soldiers as an example and to dip them into his runny eggs, somehow contriving to use both his fork and his knife.

Peter bit the inside of his lip and counted to ten in every language he knew.

“I also could not help but notice that your elbows are atop the table, master Pevensie. You see the way your younger brother keeps all his limbs tucked in so politely?” He motioned towards Edmund who was slumped over his bowl, still blinking at the world in the way of the not entirely conscious. He never truly woke until after his second cup of tea.

“Surely this is a sign that your mother has taught you proper manners,” Father Simon continued. He leaned forward, as if to share a secret, “If you want my advice, master Pevensie,” he whispered loudly, “It would behoove you to follow his example.”

Peter clenched his teeth.

Edmund, who couldn’t help but overhear (in fact, most of the table had heard, though they were trying hard to pretend they hadn’t for Peter’s sake) suddenly sat very straight and switched his spoon to his right hand. Under the table, Peter felt him cross his leg just at the ankle in the proper fashion for a high Archenland feast, while his spoon began tracing slow, elegant arcs from his bowl to his mouth. It was exactly the way their teacher, dear old Blackheart the Dwarf, with his long white beard that traveled down to his knees and his little half-moon spectacles, had taught them in their Great Hall at Cair Paravel. Blackheart never scolded, and never made them feel inadequate even when Edmund dropped his knife three times and Lucy spilled soup all down her frock.

“King Peter,” he’d nod his old head, “in Archenland it is customary to use this spoon for ices. You see how the bowl is far too narrow for a good soup spoon, or even for a table spoon? This is because of an amusing mishap made by King Lune’s grandmother, Lanis the Third, while entertaining the Tisroc.” 

He had an anecdote for every piece of cutlery, and a grandfatherly sort of smile, and was never the least bit impatient. When they’d completed their dining lessons he’d invited them all home to his cave (a cheerful little cave like Mr. Tumnus’, but with deep bay windows and flower boxes) for a meal of sloppy finger foods because after all, he’d said, their majesties had quite earned it after putting up with such a fussy old Dwarf.

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and straightened into Archenland form. Edmund shot an understanding glance.

“Ah, now that’s much better master Pevensie. It would be a shame if you misrepresented this school in public. After all,” Father Simon raised one thin finger into the air, “One must always remember that he represents his school, his church, and of course his country wherever he goes.” And with that he stood up with his breakfast to find some other victim upon which to bestow his advice.

Once Father Simon’s back was turned Edmund stuck his tongue out at him. Peter absently finished his breakfast with astoundingly perfect manners, which all the other boys thought was genius and reenacted with mocking exactness for the next week. Peter never noticed.

 

 

V.

Peter’s ribs ached from where he’d taken a good punch at the station.

He didn’t remember it at first, too caught up in the smell of the ocean – _Narnia’s_ ocean – and the joy of throwing off his coat and shoes, feeling warm sand between his toes and bright sunshine warming his hair, and splashing about in the sea with his brother and sisters. Just ten minutes on this beach was better than any week-long seaside holiday.

He did his best to ignore the pain as they worked their way inward through the trees. Campaigns had taught him to ride a horse for hours and then chop firewood and cook dinner with a sprained wrist or blisters where his shield rubbed his side or any number of other small, bearable discomforts. And there wasn’t much anyone could do about bruised ribs on a beach with only two sandwiches and cast off school clothes between the four of them.

Later, after they’d found the treasure room and recovered their old gifts and Rhindon was bright in his hand, he crossed blades with shadows, testing his footwork and relearning the weight of a shield on his arm. A left downward cut at an old apple tree brought a stab of pain, and he remembered his side again. Peter paused for breath and discreetly felt his ribs, not wanting to worry the others. They didn’t seem to be broken.

He glanced at Lucy sitting in the warm grass plaiting back Susan’s hair from her face. Her cordial was at her hip, and he knew if he asked she would give him a drop. It would only take a little drop, and though as High King he’d warned her against using it for small things, there were times the small things could get in the way of big things. If he had to run like this, he’d regret it.

But instead of asking her, he found himself lying down in the grass, soaking up the sun. 

His siblings were right about him being angry. Even here in Narnia, in his own castle (and even with Cair Paravel in ruins, he felt as if he’d come home) he could still feel the sharp sorrow of losing his kingdom and his kingship, all the things he’d loved and bled for. It was as if he’d been rudely forced to wake up from the most wonderful dream of his life, except that his waking life seemed duller and less real by comparison. But whether it was the Narnian air clearing his head or just his conscience sparking more strongly now that he felt like a real King again, he found that he was somewhat ashamed of himself.

In England he’d had a ready defense for launching himself at the other boy, but here in Narnia he felt his cheeks redden. Peter wasn’t a boy. Peter hadn’t been a boy for almost sixteen years, since he’d led Aslan’s army against the White Witch. Fighting school children was so far beneath him, he had no idea how he’d ever thought it was justifiable.

He heard Edmund laugh somewhere behind him, and Susan shout in mock-anger, and decided not to mention his bruises.

 

 

Lucy twitched about at the rudder in obvious discomfort as Peter rowed by himself for a bit to give Edmund a break.

“Are you all right, Lu?” Peter asked.

“Yes, I’m fine, really. Isn’t my gown pretty, Peter?” she asked, which didn’t particularly surprise Peter. Lucy had never liked to dwell on discomfort. Peter nodded automatically (fifteen years of diplomacy had taught him that the answer to a woman asking about anything being pretty was always “Yes,”) and really looked at it for the first time. Lucy swept her free hand over her skirt, settling it so that a peek of the pale blue underskirt showed and pointed the toes of her slippers up and down where they dangled an inch above the bottom of the boat.

Now that he looked, the colours reminded Peter a bit of her coronation gown, which Lucy had worn for a week straight until Lucy’s chief maid-in-waiting (a Naiad maiden who’d worked not a few bloodstains out of Peter’s own robes), got Susan to bribe her out of it with the promise of archery lessons.

He said so between hard pulls at the oars. His shoulders were aching. Maybe Susan could spell him soon.

Lucy beamed. “Yes, that’s why I chose it. I’ve always loved these colours.” She fiddled with the hem of one sleeve. “If we go back to Spare Oom again, and stay there, I think I want to paint my house these colours,” she said, half to herself. Then added, “If I ever get married and have my own house, I mean. If not I think I’ll get a little flat with a guest bedroom for when you and Susan and Edmund come visit me. I suppose I should put two beds in it.”

It was such a grown-up thing to say, it reminded Peter yet again that his sister was only half little girl and half woman, far more than other girls her age who were approaching that in-between point..

Peter’s heart and lungs swelled with something like homesickness – not for England, but for Narnia as it was when they ruled there, for the old Cair Paravel and their court, for the stables, the pier, the battlement, and his old chambers. He’d fought the feeling all day. It helped a bit that Lucy (and Susan and Edmund too, he thought) were acting like their old selves, their true selves. It felt so good to act like his real self.

Lucy murmured, as if sharing a secret, “I love wearing gowns again. I do wish I could have worn my crown, even if it isn’t practical. I miss it. Sometimes I get up in the morning, and I comb my hair, and then I have to go on with out putting on my crown and it feels wrong. Do you know what I mean, Peter?”

This was the first time he’d heard Lucy say anything of the sort, though he was sure she talked like this with Susan late at night in their room, as Edmund did with him.

He heaved back again against the water, then paused a moment to stare into the glassy green surface. “Yes, Lucy. I know exactly what you mean.”

“Oh good,” she said, “Wouldn’t want to be the only one.” She smiled. “I’m in good company, then. Oh, look, an eagle!” she pointed, and Peter was glad to talk about something else.

 

 

Edmund kept looking sideways at the Minotaurs. It was subtle, but Peter noticed because he couldn’t help doing the same thing.

When they stopped to eat more apples and bear meat, and (from the Old Narnian army) hard bread and hard cheese, Edmund followed Peter down to the stream to wash his hands.

“I can’t help it,” he said, lowly so the sound wouldn’t carry.

“Neither can I,” Peter said as he wiped his hands dry on his tunic.

“Yes, neither can Susan and I think even Lucy is a little scared now and then. But she’s so tiny now.”

Peter refrained from daring Edmund to tell her that to her face only because he suspected the Old Narnians would be alarmed to see their ancient heroes tackle each other, even in play, the way it had scared him as a child to see Mother and Father argue.

“We didn’t think much of the Black Dwarfs, at first,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll get used to it.”

Edmund shrugged. “That’s not what really bothers me. What really bothers me is that I’m bothered. I of all people have no excuse to be suspicious,” and then he preempted Peter by saying, “You know what I mean. I’m not exactly innocent myself. I should be more forgiving, like Lucy.”

The Minotaurs had been one of the worst kinds of the Witch’s followers to hunt down after the Battle of Beruna. What they lacked in cleverness they made up for in determination, strength, and skill. Peter remembered saying wearily to Oreius once that he wished they were on his side. Oreius had taken it for a joke and smiled politely. (Even for a Centaur Oreius had a hard time understanding humor.)

“We _will_ get used to it," was all Peter could say. 

Later, after the miserable failure of an attack on Miraz’s castle, Edmund and Susan made excuses to the army and forcibly took Peter to a private corner of the Howe.

“I have to get back to Lucy and Caspian and the others. Ed?” Susan asked, and Edmund assured her with a nod that he would take care of Peter. 

He sat quietly while Peter paced. It was only nervous energy, and Peter knew it. His anger and horror were turning into grief and exhaustion. He and Edmund had done exactly this a dozen or so times after battles, and sometimes it was Edmund who did the pacing.

He sat quietly while Peter paced. It was only nervous energy, really, and Peter knew it. His anger and horror were turning into grief and exhaustion. He and Edmund had done exactly this a dozen or so times after battles, and sometimes it was Edmund who did the pacing.

“Glenstorm’s son. What was his name?” Peter finally asked. Edmund always knew these things.

Softly he said, “Athdar.”

“Do we have a count for the others yet?”

“No. I know Goldflight. Rogin. Aulus, and either Voluns or Voltinus, I’m not sure which. Sweetclover. Astrius and Ironhorn, the Minotaurs.”

In his quiet Edmund-ish way Peter had seen his brother do his best to treat the Minotaurs just like the rest of the Narnians. Now, though, he heard respect. Peter gave a tiny laugh at his own previous foolishness. 

“True Narnians,” he said.

Edmund reached for his shoulder and held it firmly. “They were. They died for Narnia, and for Aslan, Peter.”

He didn’t say, “Not for you,” because Peter wasn’t ready to believe that yet, but eventually he would, just as he knew that Oreius’ death fighting the Northern Giants wasn’t his fault either.

Peter sighed and leaned against the cave wall next to his brother. 

 

 

After the business with the White Witch’s ghost the day was spent planning and watching. Ravens reported back the numbers and types of weaponry Miraz had, and gave hourly accounts of how close they were.

Edmund disappeared with the DLF, Trufflehunter, and Glenstorm for two hours and came back with a plan to collapse parts of the caves right under the Telmarines. Susan scared up some parchment and ink and several quills, and carefully made the invitation to single combat which Doctor Cornelius had written up to look proper and Narnian, like it should be, like such things used to be. Then she and Peter and the two best archers in Caspian’s army (Oscuns the Faun and a Dwarfess named Petalbless) planned out the archery formations. After that Susan helped Lucy set up an area inside the Howe for taking care of the wounded, though there was a chance neither would be there to help.

Peter hammered out a battle plan with Caspian (which generally meant him proposing a plan, Caspian shooting it down, Glenstorm agreeing that the plan would work with just some little adjustments, Reepicheep and Trufflehunter pointing out any weaknesses the Glenstorm had missed, and then Edmund pointing out a new opportunity for Peter to form a plan around, which restarted the whole process. Lucy helped tremendously by simply keeping things civil. All the while everyone hoped against hope that outright war would be unnecessary, that the challenge to single combat would keep battle from breaking out.

That night, long after most of the army had gone to bed, Susan finally said, “Peter, if you don’t go to bed now Miraz won’t have much of a challenge." 

“Really, we’ve made all the plans we can, and my pillow has been tempting me for hours,” Edmund agreed. 

Peter looked up and realized that their candle was down to an inch or so, and saw their point. Lucy was already dozing across the cracked Table, and Susan had to shake her shoulder to wake her.

“Mm, Aslan?” Lucy murmured, and Susan bit her lip. Peter could see the memories chasing across her eyes of another night on this same Table. It was Edmund who said, “Not yet, Lu. Come on, I’ll give you a pig-a-back ride to your bed,” and sat so that Lucy could clamber on, smiling sleepily.

Susan swallowed hard before following, but Peter caught her arm.

“Su,” he said, and then stopped, not knowing what to say. She turned and looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“He’ll come. Aslan will come,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He always does, in the end.”

Peter nodded, and rolled up the maps. He offered his arm to Susan and it wasn’t until they stopped at the girls’ bedroom (really one of the more private nooks of the cave, but they had cushions to lie on, plenty of blankets, and a wash basin) that he realized they’d fallen back into perfect court manners without thought. Susan smiled at him and kissed his cheek like a Queen, and he went to his own bed with a little flame of hope growing in his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School-administrated corporeal punishment mentioned in this chapter.

VI.

Lucy punched a boy.

It caused a huge fuss. She was sent to speak to the headmistress who had caned her hands seven times across the palms (the maximum allowed at St. Finbarr's) and was assigned all sorts of work as punishment even though everyone agreed that the boy had deserved it.

Peter only heard about it the next Saturday when he and Edmund went to collect their sisters for a day at the little park just down the road and only Susan came to meet them.

“What did the boy do, anyway?” asked Edmund as they unpacked the apples and hard boiled eggs they’d taken from breakfast that morning.

“He was bullying one of the first year boys just outside our gate. Really, he was vicious. I’m surprised someone else didn’t step in before Lucy did.”

Peter skipped a stone into the pond. “So why is she in so much trouble? I did the same thing last year and I only got two hits.”

Susan shot him an odd look. “It’s different for girls,” she said.

It was an alien thought to Peter. In Narnia mostly the men had gone to battle, but the women had been expected to act as a final defense, fully armed and battle ready should the need arise. With some of the other peoples – the Eagles, for example, whose females were larger – the males only went to war if the need was dire, while other species such as Badgers and Centaurs kept only their young from fighting.

“I don’t see why,” he said. “It’s the same thing. In fact, it was very brave of her to defend a younger student against someone older than her.”

“Well she does have an advantage,” Edmund pointed out, and they all remembered that Lucy’s dagger had seen blood on more than one occasion, and she was not afraid to kick or punch if need be. Edmund and Oreius had seen to it that she was taught to hold her own in a fight if she ever lost her weapons. 

Susan laughed. “She broke his nose. It was worse than that prince you punched, Peter.”

Edmund frowned. “You mean the duke.”

“You see? She was in the right,” said Peter.

“Yes, but you’re a boy,” Susan said. “You’re expected to defend people and know how to fight. Lucy and I are supposed to run and fetch help.”

“Are you supposed to scream and faint too?” Edmund asked in his most sarcastic voice.

Susan shrugged. “I almost fainted when that Wolf attacked Lucy and me at Aslan's camp.”

“But that’s not the same at all,” Peter protested. “We’d been walking for two days and you couldn’t nock an arrow and still hold onto the tree. I almost passed out too when he was on top of me. Anyway, just because you’re the Gentle doesn’t mean you can’t fight just as well as Edmund. And Lucy’s almost as good as me.”

Edmund huffed out a noise of protest and rolled onto his back under the sun. “I can beat you any time you’d like, your Magnificence.”

Susan smiled grandly at him, “Thank you Peter. It’s too bad you’re so much worse than Edmund and me.”

“Oy!” Peter yelped, and attacked them to defend his honor.

They ate their picnic still laughing and breathless, grass in Edmund's hair and Susan's plait unraveling. Then they found two branches roughly the right shape and weight, and Edmund did indeed beat Peter, but only because Susan tripped him.

The next Saturday they went out to the park again, and Peter made Lucy the very first Lady of the Order of the Lion, though none of them were sure how that would go on her titles.

When she’d risen and he’d bestowed a kingly kiss on each cheek Lucy threw her arms around him joyfully.

“I’ve always wanted to be knighted,” she whispered just loudly enough for him to hear. 

 

 

Peter was the last of the family to arrive home at the end of summer. 

Edmund came into their room as Peter unpacked for the three days he had before going back to school. Peter glanced up at him, and then stopped and really looked.

“You’ve been _back_ ,” Peter said.

Edmund grinned. “Lucy too. And Eustace, if you can believe it.”

“Eustace?” Peter laughed. “Must have been a shock for him.”

“He kept demanding to be taken to the British Consul,” Edmund nodded. “But he changed. He met Aslan.”

Peter sat down on his bed without looking first, mind rushing faster than any steam engine. “How -” he started.

“We’ll both tell you, tonight. Susan too,” Edmund said, but although it was nearly supper time he didn’t move when Peter started toward the door. Peter slowly sat back down and waited.

“Peter,” Edmund finally said quietly, “He said we can’t come back. Me and Lucy. To Narnia.” His voice cracked on the last word as it hadn’t for years, and Peter didn’t think before folding his brother into a hug. Edmund was almost as tall as he was, now, and had to settle for burying his face in Peter’s shoulder rather than his chest.

Edmund cried silently for a minute, before whispering, “How did you stand it? What do I do?” and Peter thought about the last year and how Susan had looked at him sometimes, as if desperate. It’d been… not easy for him, by any means, but he’d understood. Peter was sure that his heart could not have taken going back and forth to Narnia after that last time, knew that he was too old to make his home in two places at once and that if he had to live in England it was best to just stay there.

“We only have to live here, Ed,” he finally whispered. “We’re not English anymore, not really. I think when we die we’ll go to Aslan’s country, just like the other Narnians. I’m sure of it.”

“Aslan said as much,” Edmund said. He drew away from Peter and looked at him, wiping his face with one hand. He wasn’t ashamed of crying over this at all, and Peter was struck by how different he was from the old, small, spiteful, Edmund from before Narnia, though that was so long ago now.

“We saw Reepicheep go there, in a little coracle,” he said. “It was beautiful.”

From downstairs they heard their mother call for them to wash up. 

Edmund smiled, bravely. “I do understand, and it’s – you were right about it not being so awful. But it still hurts, not going back,” he said.

They shared an understanding look for a moment, and Peter wished he could say more. Edmund still had that Narnian look about him though, and Peter thought he’d be all right.

They went down to supper.

 

 

Peter heard giggling from the girls’ room. The door was half open, and he knocked on the doorframe as he opened it the rest of the way. Susan mock-shrieked and covered her face with her hands, eyes peeking out, while Lucy held one of Susan’s pretty, lacy pillows over her own face.

“Go away!” they chorused, but they were laughing so Peter dropped the philosophy book the Professor had lent him over the Christmas hols (carefully, so the pages didn’t bend) on the floor and leapt at them instead. He chose Susan because she was already sitting on the floor and he loved seeing her behave like a kid again instead of the very grown up young lady she was trying so hard to be lately.

Lucy threw the pillow to one side and jumped to her sister’s defense and Peter was greeted to the sight of two green faces, only lips and eyes still natural. He jumped back with a little cry, and Susan doubled over with laughter.

“Oh, Pete!” she gasped, “your face!”

“ _My_ face? What about yours?”

“It’s a face mask, Peter. See look, we tried it on my arm here first and now my skin is all smooth and lovely,” Lucy held out her arm for inspection and Susan said, “Oh dear, Lucy. You’ve smudged your varnish,” and began hunting through the neat little row of varnishes at her side.

Lucy frowned slightly and muttered, “Drat,” but didn’t seem as concerned as Susan was. 

Both wore pajamas though it was only 8 o’clock. As Susan reapplied apple red varnish to one of Lucy’s nails (Lucy wrinkled up her nose at the smell), she explained, “We’re having a girls’ night. I have to be all dolled up for the Petersons’ Christmas party tomorrow anyway. There, Lu. Now blow on it.”

Peter leaned back far enough to recover his book, glad of his regained height, and had settled back against the leg of Lucy’s bed to return to Kant’s moral philosophy when Lucy said, “Oh but you can’t stay here, Peter. It’s girls’ night.”

Peter looked up in surprise. He knew the four of them did spend more time together than most siblings, but it had always been that way since Aslan had crowned them and none of them, not even Susan, thought it strange.

“Alright then Lu, I’ll go bother Ed,” he said as he stood, closing his book.

“Oh he can stay, Lu,” Susan said quickly. Then her eyes lit up with mischief. “So long as he agrees to certain... conditions.”

Half an hour later found Peter reclining with Kant again, this time in his pajamas and robe and with curlers in his hair. From the way the girls kept biting back smiles he knew he must look ridiculous, but it was nice to see them both so happy. 

Girls’ night, he learned, included talk about boys. For Susan this included parties and gossip – Eleanor Grove was now seeing her former beau’s best mate, and Susan hoped it was really love or why ruin a good friendship? And she hoped Tom was at the Petersons' party tomorrow night. She hoped he wore his uniform. They weren’t steady, of course, but Susan did like a man in uniform and Tom was a decent sort.

Susan went with a new boy every few months, but Peter did his best to keep track. He’d only met Tom once, but Edmund assured him that Tom really was a decent sort. Susan might have left Narnia in her childhood but she hadn’t lost her common sense or gentle heart, and Peter doubted she’s ever settle for less than a good man.

On Lucy’s side the talk was mostly complaints that her friend Marjorie now spent all her time either with Martin Smith or talking about Martin Smith, and Lucy was becoming annoyed.

“Jill’s about the only one who’s still bearable,” she said. She’d met Jill the previous summer, and they’d been fast friends instantly. “I wish we got to see more of her and Eustace.”

“Do you remember what a little fright he used to be?” laughed Susan. “I’m glad he’s grown out of that.”

Peter shot Lucy a warning look, but she was already pressing her lips together and swallowing any talk of Narnia. Peter thought that Susan’s claim to not remember Narnia half so well as the rest of them was all a farce. She’d never liked change, and to go from a Queen of a magical land to an English school girl – and not one who was particularly clever or who had very many friends at that – had been harder on her than it had for Lucy who could find wonder in the smallest things and had adventures on her way to breakfast. Better to go on with life and do the best to be at least a princess here than to keep longing after something she couldn’t go back to.

Really, it was very practical. It was just the way she went about it that they all disagreed with.

Edmund stuck his head in just then with a cheerful, “Hello! You both look like ghoulies, you realize,” and plopped down on Lucy’s bed. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised at their appearance, but then Peter had given up being jealous of his brother’s aplomb long ago. Still, it was satisfying to see his double take when he saw what the girls had done to Peter’s hair.

Less satisfying when he burst out laughing.

“Stop laughing at him you beast, or we’ll do your nails,” Susan said. Lucy sat up beside her and said, “Yes, how about that rose one, Susan? It’ll look darling on him!”

Edmund held up his hands to ward them off. “No, fair ladies, I prithee, spare me such foul punishment!” and flung himself dramatically to his knees in front of Peter crying, “A hundred thousand apologies, brother, for my insult. I beg thy mercy.”

Peter smacked at his head in forgiveness.

Susan sniffed at Edmund playfully. “Really, brother, such behavior ill suits thee. Why, our fair companion shows wondrous courage to so brave thy sure scorn for sake of sisters’ joy. Rather, thou shouldst laud this, his strange crown, than laugh.”

“Even so,” chimed in Lucy.

Edmund grinned at the game and said, “Fair sister, thou speakest true.” He turned to Peter. “You look fetching, Pete. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Peter chased him from the room. He was back the next minute, though, to call Susan down to the telephone where Tom was waiting to speak to her.

They all paused a moment after she’d left. Finally Lucy said, “She can speak like we’re back at Cair Paravel just as well as the rest of us. How can she say it was all a game?”

Edmund pulled her against his chest where she could hide her face. He shared a miserable look with Peter.

“I think she’s trying to be happy,” he offered. Then he shook his head quickly. “I know, it’s ridiculous. She’s a Queen and she acts like all the other silly girls her age who are only interested in boys and romantic films and lipstick and all that. She used to love swimming and archery.”

Lucy said something, but it was muffled by Edmund’s shirt. She pulled her head back and said, “She used to not care about her suitors, really. She heard them all out, and she danced with all of them and she even went to Galma and Calormen. But she used to be more concerned with, oh, I don’t know. Important things. She was almost a sworn sister to Corin after his mother died. Do you remember? And she would knit little caps or mittens or scarves for all the families that had lost their mothers or fathers every Christmas.” Peter remembered Susan painstakingly knitting fourteen tiny mittens, each pair in a different color, for a family of Rabbits their first year at Cair Paravel, and only afterwards realizing that they didn’t particularly need gloves. (The Rabbits had been very pleased anyway, and worn the mittens proudly.)

“She used to go to battle, even though she hated it. And she won every tournament she ever entered. She bullied all of us to learn dances and host feasts, and she set up our Library and helped you,” Edmund nodded down to Lucy, “make sure that all the children and young Beasts learned to read and write and do some mathematics without having to go to schools and wear uniforms and write at blackboards.”

“She used to like adventures,” Lucy sniffed. And that was the real difference, Peter thought. Susan was so concerned now with making sure everything in her life was just so that she’d made herself forget Narnia to have it, while all along what she really wanted was her old life back, to be a Queen and to be grown up again and past all the unsurities of growing up.

Peter frowned, Edmund bit his lip, and there was a long silence as they tried to think of something that would cheer them all up. Luckily, Lucy pulled back enough then for Edmund to see the damage her mask had done to his shirt.

“Lucy!” Edmund laughed. “I look like I’ve been hugged by a swamp creature.”

 

 

Years ago, after returning from Narnia the second time, he'd seen Aslan once more.

Until then if you’d asked him what he missed the most about Narnia he might have said Cair Paravel, or being a King, or even his sword and shield from Father Christmas, or if his brother caught him in the right mood (which was mostly drunk), to missing Narnia herself, regardless of the rest.

But suddenly face to face with Aslan, alone in his dormitory, the feeling overwhelmed him in a rush and Peter admitted to himself that he’d missed the Great Cat. He’d missed knowing that Aslan Himself had chosen him, Peter Gregory Pevensie of Finchley, good at maths and history and rugby and very poor at grammar or holding his temper, to be a King of something as wonderful as Narnia, missed knowing that if he went so terribly wrong that even his family couldn’t get him to see sense Aslan could, missed the sureness and the calm of having a magic lion who could defeat such an evilness as the White Witch at his back and at his side. Missed his voice.

Peter gibbered a bit, which he later forgave himself for since he was sick with the flu and possibly delirious. He thought he managed something about honor and something else about homesickness and a bit on the well being of his siblings, which were all the important things.

Aslan padded forward until his head was level with Peter’s and stared into his eyes for a long, long moment. It was such a relief that if he couldn’t have Narnia, at least he could know that something of Narnia could visit here amid England’s cigarettes and cars that Peter didn’t even mind the feeling of his soul being weighed by those great, still eyes. It was like going (home) back to Cair Paravel after one of the more gruesome battles and seeing Lucy pull a reluctant Edmund up to dance to a Faun’s pipes in the royal garden and remembering that yes, even with all the horrors of hate and death and pain and the grime that didn’t always seem to wash off, love was still real.

Aslan smiled, which Peter couldn’t explain, and said, “Peter Pevensie, remember that once a King or a Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen.” He bestowed a wet, solemn lion’s kiss on Peter’s forehead and faded away like a mirage.

Peter didn’t tell anyone. 

 

 

VII.

It was better after that, although it wasn’t truly better until Peter heard Edmund’s trowel thunk on a little wooden chest in a garden in a house that used to belong to Professor Kirk and Peter could again dream about Narnia and let himself remember the smell of the Eastern Sea in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

>  _We Need Some Pines_  
>  by Marvin Bell
> 
> We need some pines to assuage the darkness  
> when it blankets the mind,  
> we need a silvery stream that banks as smoothly  
> as a plane’s wing, and a worn bed of  
> needles to pad the rumble that fills the mind,  
> and a blur or two of a wild thing  
> that sees and is not seen. We need these things  
> between appointments, after work,  
> and, if we keep them, then someone someday,  
> lying down after a walk  
> and supper, with the fire hole wet down,  
> the whole night sky set at a particular  
> time, without numbers or hours, will cause  
> a little sound of thanks – a zipper or a snap –  
> to close round the moment and the thought  
> of whatever good we did.


End file.
